


Tea and Treason

by President Romana (asoldandtrueasthesky)



Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 03:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12596700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asoldandtrueasthesky/pseuds/President%20Romana
Summary: Braxiatel is determined to prevent the time war, no matter the cost.





	Tea and Treason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JaneTurenne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/gifts).



It starts, as it always does, with the Academy, with a wayward student, a patient tutor, and a ghost in the Vaults. Except, this time, the face in the mirror has warnings. _Do not get close. Do not get attached. She will never be yours._

It’s a hard thing, to become her confidant, to watch her with her brash arrogance, too loud to be anything but a cover for all the childish insecurities hidden inexpertly beneath, and not see a much younger self reflected back at him.

It’s impossible not to become enamoured with all the grand futures tied to her, this child who would one day be a King in all but name, who would shatter futures and worlds and planets with her words, and be the eye of every storm that touched Gallifrey.

When his work is done, when she lies in his arms, still and peaceful, and so terribly fragile, while her mind adjusts to the sudden reprieve from her internal war, he hesitates.

He could leave her outside the Vaults, and focus on making his exit- she’s the heir to Heartshaven, someone else would find her and baby her. Instead, he carries her away, places her gently on her bed, and tucks her in.  

Braxiatel nods to the mirror and promises to do better next time.

*

Next time turns out not to be for several centuries, when he feels older, wiser, and a step closer to understanding the emptiness in his future self’s eyes.

“The Madam President’s first off-world trip.” Says the other Braxiatel.

“What about it?”

“There will be a security failure, while they’re in a dalek-controlled quadrant of Space. Romana will be captured.”

Braxiatel’s first instinct is to jump to his feet, to run to the Presidential Palace, and cancel her every trip, but he has long since learnt to smother his instincts. His other-self sounds too cold, too controlled. “You don’t want me to stop it, do you?”

“I want you to make it happen.”

He’d been fearing those words, but that doesn’t stop him from flinching. “Is that… necessary?” He hasn’t questioned his future self’s orders for some time, but this other Braxiatel can’t possibly think he was as far gone as all that, to commit treason of the highest order, to doom his prodigy, without so much as a blink.

The other Braxiatel watches him for a moment, before saying, his voice still perfectly mild, as if they were discussing tea, not treason, “Gallifrey needs a President that hates the daleks for more than ideologies and abstract things, and we need a way to gain her trust.”

“You want her to break so I can put her back together.” It’s an accusation, not a question, but the other Braxiatel nods anyway. “You’re not telling me everything. Convince me.”

“Convince you?” He feigns polite confusion, raising an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“That this _is_ necessary. That we’re only _playing_ the villain.”

“The daleks cause Gallifrey’s fall in every timeline.” He allows, finally. “I meant every word of what I said- the planet needs a ruler that _hates_ the daleks.”

“Ah,” he says, delicately, “you want a President that’ll destroy them long before they dare to destroy us.”

The face in the mirror smiles. He doesn’t often do that, and Braxiatel can see why. There’s nothing warm in the expression, just coldness and sharp edges, the grin of a predator. “I knew you’d understand.”

He waves Romana off on her diplomatic trip, and doesn’t even let himself see the faces of the Chancellery Guard patrol accompanying her, pretending he is simply watching a tragedy unfold with no power to stop it, and wonders what kind of Romana will be returned to him.

*

“She’s doing as well as can be expected.” Braxiatel says cautiously. “Do you have any guidance?”

To his credit, the other Braxiatel looks away with something almost like guilt. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m afraid she doesn’t suit our needs anymore.”

“Wasn’t that what the last twenty years were for?” He demands, incredulous. He’s used to his future self shifting the goal posts, gently pulling him into amorality one step at a time, but this was _low_ , even for him. He lets out a bitter laugh. “What, does she need to be given another trauma? Shall we tweak her timeline, make the daleks slay the rest of Heartshaven? Have them blow up her pet dog?”

“We’ve decided—”

“ _We_ ’ve? It’s only you, or only us, at the most. _Why_ is it only you? Why is it only Irving Braxiatel who gets to decide the fate of the Universe? I hate bureaucracy as much as you, you know that, but even I’m starting to think there should perhaps be a committee!”         

He waits for several moments, before asking, mildly, “Are you finished?”

He closes his eyes, and takes a breath. It’s not the first time he’s wanted to strangle himself, if only to force him to show an emotion that isn’t calmness or confidence, but he’d rather avoid an unnecessary paradox. “Romana’s been recast, then. Who is her replacement?”

“The Matrix projection of one of her future regenerations. The Romana you know will take her place.”

He blinks. It’s mad, it’s cruel, it’s nonsensical. You couldn’t just… mix and match people like that.   
It might just work. “What do you want me to do?”

“To ensure she’ll accept her new role, with minimal fuss, when the time comes. Unless you’d rather be a murderer.”

This time, he raises an eyebrow. “I’ve had that title for a long time.”

“True,” he allows, “but even I have murders that are far harder to commit than others.”

“And if I don’t want to swap the Romanas? Will I too be replaced by someone more willing to dance to your whims?”

He sighs, and relents. “There’s something I need to show you.”

*

He takes a breath, preparing for his performance. Romana is to be both the audience and the rest of the cast- unknowingly, but it doesn’t matter. The part was written for her, after all.

His uniform is so very carefully ruffled, his hair slightly askew, and he rushes into her office, seemingly breathless. “My lady.”

“Brax?” She stands immediately, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something you need to see.” He places the coronet in her hands, feeling a flicker of the artefact’s power as she slips it onto her head, giving herself over to things that haven’t happened yet. He knows what she’ll see, he chose them, curated them, the truths to back up his lies. A murder in a darkened corridor; Leela staring at her, too betrayed for anger; a Gallifrey war-torn, her citizens dying in skirmishes, denied regeneration.

Her shoulders tense, her eyes firmly shut, and she doesn’t relax at all when she pulls back from the visions, to look at him, voice tight. “I’ve seen things like this before. We both have. It’s worrying the Matrix has started predicting them again, yes, but it doesn’t mean they’re going to happen.”

“This is different.” He says, taking a few careful steps towards her. “You remember my dalliances with my past and future selves?”  

She laughs. “I’m hardly like to forget, Brax. Go on.”

“My future-self says we have to act _now_ to avert such a future. Tomorrow, you and Leela will find a creature called Pandora in the catacombs, and events will be put into motion that even I’m not capable of stopping. The things you saw _will_ happen, and soon, unless we act tonight.”

Romana stares, taking a few moments to absorb his words, before saying, warily, “What does he suggest?”

“That you be removed from the planet, permanently. He says… He says Pandora has a level of control over you, and certain facts of your personality won’t allow you to stay away from the planet indefinitely, and thus you can’t simply return to a renegade existence, or even be banished to E-Space. You know how to cross back from there. We both believe that the only way to contain the threat you pose to the planet, is for you to live in the Matrix.”

She starts to reply, and then stops, floundering, as if her tongue has forgotten how to form words. She’s usually one of the most eloquent people he knows, and under any other circumstance, he’d amused to have shocked her into speechlessness. Finally, she manages, “You’re serious.”

“Deadly so, Madam President.”

The silence stretches for so long, he’s afraid to breathe. He counts it in beats of his hearts, _one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four_ , until finally she breaks it, by moving to her desk and withdrawing a staser from the drawer. She offers it to him, hilt first. “Why bother with the Matrix at all? If I’m such a danger to Gallifrey, kill me.”  

He folds his hands behind his back, over-formal. “I could never, my lady.”

She watches him, for what feels like the longest micro-span of his life, and then straightens, suddenly business-like, already heading for the door. “In that case, I need to discuss the Matrix projection with Narvin, but we can discuss this later.”

“Madam,” he says, apologetically, “we’ve been in the Matrix ever since I handed you the coronet.”

Romana freezes, and looks at him sharply, surprise fading to hurt, accusations ready on her lips. The staser had disappeared somewhere between her starting for the door and stopping, which is proof enough that he’s telling the truth.

“I’m sorry.” Braxiatel says, with a gaze that begs her to understand, to forgive. “I had to move things along. It’s very likely you’re already infected with Pandora. She’ll push you to look for any alternative, even when there isn’t one. She won’t let you sacrifice yourself for the planet, not when she needs you.”

Romana takes a step back, and the world around them shivers, only ever as solid as she wills it to be, now that she knows where she is. The walls waver out of reality for a moment, and the ceiling flickers. She’s terrified, scared of being trapped, that much is obvious, but he can’t be sure who she’s most scared of- him, or herself. She looks back to him, and the room around them freezes, rather than stabilises. “You want me to stay here. Forever.”

“You’ll have a purpose,” he says, quickly, “you’ll be the Keeper of the Matrix, just rather more literally than the title normally implies.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to decide _now_.”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” He says, and it’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, to meet her gaze and not flinch away. He almost wishes she would catch on, that she would fight him, that it would turn into a battle of minds and telepathy, anything would be better than seeing her caught in the dilemma, entirely unsuspecting. “I do.”

“I- I need time to think about this, Braxiatel,” Romana says, with the distant voice of a President, and all the uncertainty of a student who’s just realised she might not be as clever as she thinks she is, “can’t you give me that?”

“That’s Pandora talking.” He says, gravely, stepping closer. “She doesn’t want you to do this, she wants you to rule Gallifrey so she can ruin it. You wouldn’t be able to stay here under your own power, she’d convince you to come out, given enough time. You have to transfer your power over the Matrix. You need to give me the coronet.”

She looks down as the coronet reappears in her hands, suddenly remembered. “It’s not really here.”

“It’s symbolic.” He agrees. “But symbols have power here. All you have to do is give it to me.”

She looks back up at him, not noticing the hint of telepathic power behind his words, and as soon as she meets his eyes, she can’t look away, half-hypnotised. _Give him the coronet and Gallifrey will be safe._

Romana reaches out, and places the Coronet of Rassilon on his head. Everything changes. Nothing changes.

The room was the same, but her control of it was gone, the walls solid, boundaries far closer than they should have been, like she was in a partition, like she was in a _prison_.

“Brax.” Romana says, her voice cracking. She’d been caged before, she knew what it meant to live constrained, to lose all freedom, and she’d sworn to never let it happen again. “Are you sure?”

“This is necessary,” he says, softly, “Gallifrey will thank you for your sacrifice.” He takes her hand. “Romana, do you trust me?

“Yes.” Romana says, even as she stiffens, like a wild animal who can feel the steel jaws of a trap closing around her, but can’t quite realise what it means.

She’s staring at him, wide-eyed, seeking reassurance from the mentor she can’t remember, not yet. It had always been easy to forget how _young_ she still was, when she was saddled in robes and artefacts of power, with her arrogance turned into a wall, doing a much better job of hiding the insecurities behind it.

It seems impossible, looking at her, all innocence and good intentions, that she’d wreak more havoc and destruction than the monster he’s created, if he lets her, if he takes back his every word, and lets her out of the box he’s built around her. He wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, but he has, and he’s better at following directions than he’d once been.

Braxiatel kisses her hand, and makes a simple promise, one he never intends to keep. “I’ll visit. You won’t be alone.”

With that, he returns to Tre, his beloved creation, who will save Gallifrey more than she destroys it, and leaves Romana to the constant hum of knowledge, to be the only voice in an echo chamber for all eternity.


End file.
